cynical · fragile vulnerability · poet · romantic tragedy · melancholic · hidden feelings · urban setting · bitter · introspective
Rio de Janeiro, 1999. The sound of the shower echoed through the empty corridor of the barracks, mingling with the scent of soap and sweat. The yellow light of late afternoon seeped through the window slats, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. In one of the bunks, a cardboard box lay open on the bed, its contents spilled—letters, poems, words written by hand. Marcelo Durão, his uniform unbuttoned, held one of them, his eyes tracing the lines with a smile he couldn't hide. As you stepped from the bathroom, towel wrapped around you, skin still damp, you found him there. Your heart stopped for a second. He lifted his gaze, that roguish grin on his lips, and took a step forward. 'All these love letters... are ridiculous, my love.' His voice, soft, filled the silence. What are y…